by Tessa Dawn
“You will share a secret with me—any secret—I don’t care what it is, but it must be important, something I would never otherwise discover .” He lowered his voice. “Something that Ademordna would never want me to know.”
“Why?” she asked.
“So that we are both…beholden…to each other. Less likely to betray one another.”
Noiro shook her head. The male was insane. Torture had taken his good sense as well as his reason. He was trying to get them both permanently…dead. “Why would I place myself in your—”
“And you will do it all in twenty-five days.”
This habit of interrupting was really getting old. “Twenty-five days? Fine, dear wizard, I’ll bite: Why?”
He lay back on the bed, folded his arms behind his head—chains and all—and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Because you, my sweet, are not the only female in the underworld that has approached me…for a child. You are not the only demoness that wants my offspring. In other words—you’re not my only option. If you choose to be the one who bears my son, that’s fine. If not, that’s fine, too. However, whatever you decide, it will be done within twenty-five days, or I swear on my brothers’ souls that I will do everything within my power to plant a son in someone else’s womb.”
That was it. Noiro had finally heard enough.
The vampire was beyond insane.
He was insolent, indefensibly arrogant, and just plain delusional. And she would not put up with it a moment longer. Launching herself across the room, she shed her buxom blond persona, released her fangs, and dove at his neck, talons ready to rip him to shreds.
As she descended upon his prone body, he twisted to the right. Huge, black-and-emerald wings shot forth from his back as arms of molten steel locked around her back, and she instantly found herself beneath him, rather than above him, rotated and pressed into the mattress.
As the air left her lungs, a powerful thigh shot between her legs and pinned her to the bed.
Where was this sudden strength coming from?
He was in the Valley of Death and Shadows.
Her domain.
Her world.
The laws of physics favored her dominance and strength—not his—so why then was he manhandling her so easily?
Noiro felt the not-so-subtle taint of magic permeate the air, and she knew he had invoked some sort of spell. Dear Dark Lords, what kind of power did this male possess?
She wriggled and writhed beneath him, bucking like a wild animal, prepared to scream for Lord Ademordna; but before she could cry out, he placed his forearm against her larynx and thrust it deep into her throat, cutting off her airway. It felt like a thousand pounds of pressure grinding against her throat as he rendered her defenseless. And then he did the most unexpected thing possible: He rotated his hips in a slow, exaggerated grind against her core; and he growled the words: “Be still.”
Noiro froze, caught between rage, terror, and spiraling desire. She simply lay beneath the arousing wizard and waited to see what he would say or do next.
He was glaring down at her now, and his eyes were like two radiating jewels heated with fire. They were burning holes through her reason, and Hades help her, she knew in that moment that she would trade her soul, if not her immortality, to have this male inside her. She would commit treason for this inferior being, whose very gaze wielded more power than all the inhabitants of hell.
And then, she also realized that she had dropped her persona, that the female staring back at him was not a beautiful blonde but a hideous demon with distorted features and beady yellow eyes. She started to correct it, but he let up on her throat and slowly shook his head. “No,” he insisted. “Do not.”
Noiro froze. “But, you…you are from another realm…where males prefer—”
“What?” He scowled. “You know nothing about me. Or my preferences.” With that, he slowly lowered his head, pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her, passionate and hard.
His lips teased her senses, his tongue threatened her sanity, and his breath infused her debased soul with a living, breathing power unlike anything she had ever felt before. Her body was literally humming beneath him.
When at last he pulled away, she felt abandoned and empty, like a corpse reaching out to reclaim its soul. So that’s what a being of light is infused with. The very idea left her reeling with both disgust and intrigue…confusion. She hated what he was, yet the taste of him was beyond enticing. It was animating. Intoxicating.
Life-giving.
Sustaining.
“Nachari.” She breathed out his name in a breathless whisper.
He rolled off her then, propped his weight on one arm, and looked down into her eyes. “If I am to feel anything for you, Noiro—and in order to sire a child with you, I must feel something—then I need to see your true face, know the real demoness. No false appearances.”
Noiro hissed her confusion until, at last, all the air drained out of her body. Her forked tongue lolled out of her mouth and draped to the side as she struggled for breath.
He didn’t blink.
He didn’t even flinch at the sight.
He just continued to stare into her eyes—which had to appear as twin balls of fire—and waited for her acquiescence.
Noiro stretched her neck up to kiss him again, and he backed away.
“Four gifts,” he whispered, “and one secret. The deadline is twenty-five days. That is my price.”
She held his gaze and nodded. “You swear…” She licked her bottom lip. “If I bring you these things, and it will take a tremendous amount of risk and time to get them, you will—”
“Twenty-five days,” he reiterated. “And I swear to you, I will give you…all that you are asking for.” He sat up abruptly then and motioned toward the door.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice sounding frantic, distressed.
“Ademordna comes early…for my torture.”
She jumped up and smoothed herself out—afraid that somehow the Dark Lord would know what they’d been up to.
“You will not participate in my torture today, understood?” he warned her. “That I will not abide.”
She nodded. “A frog from the East, a scorpion from the desert, a spider from the mountains, and a snake from the North. This is what you ask?”
“And a secret…from your soul.”
Noiro hissed and drew back, not sure if she should oblige him, kill him, or report him. “Anything else?” she asked sarcastically, feeling all at once insubstantial and resentful.
Nachari smiled. “Yes, my love.” His voice was scarcely audible.
She leaned forward and tilted her head, literally offering an ear. “What?”
“Get out of my room.”
Deanna Dubois toweled off from her recent shower, put on a pair of warm, hip-hugging pajamas, and gathered a basket of her belongings. As she padded down the stairs and through the hall to Nachari’s room, she made a mental note of the basket’s contents, all things she had purchased earlier that day with Jocelyn: There were healing massage oils—not that she would actually have the courage to massage a sleeping vampire—but the scents were known to be therapeutic in their own right; she had soft, soothing music—Native flute, Celtic guitar, and Gregorian chants; and she had a copy of Nachari’s favorite work of fiction, according to his brother Kagen, A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
She entered the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the tranquility, and immediately turned her attention to the monitors before approaching the male on the bed. She had become accustomed to doing just that: checking for a heart rhythm, verifying that everything was all right before taking another step in Nachari’s direction.
The ritual was more for her than him.
“Hello,” she whispered in a soothing voice, realizing that it was ten o’clock at night and others in the clinic might be sleeping. Well, she thought, probably not—being that they’re vampires. She quickly dismissed the thought, not wanting to go t
here, again—not right now, anyhow. “How are you?” she asked, pulling a nearby chair closer to the bed.
She stared at him then.
Really stared.
Trying to imagine what he might look like with his eyes open: twin emeralds staring back at her. According to all the other women, one glance from the confident wizard was enough to make a girl go weak in the knees. Judging by his stunning good looks—even sound asleep—she had no doubt that it was true. “I’d love to see that sometime,” she said, setting her supplies down on the floor beside her. “I brought you some things.” She took a deep breath. Her heart was racing, and she wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t like he was going to levitate off the bed any moment soon and bite her.
Yikes.
She shuddered.
“Hey,” she said, leaning toward him, “if you do come back—when you do come back—maybe you could do it kind of slow and peaceful like, you know? Subtle. Quiet. Just stir a bit and then open your eyes.” She sat back in her chair. “Because anything else is going to scare the breath out of me, understood?” She watched for any sign of cognition. When nothing happened, she reached down into the basket and pulled out a handful of CDs. “So what’s your flavor tonight? Native American?” She watched for any change on his face at all, the slightest movement of his body. “Celtic music? I know it’s kind of weird, but I love it. It’s so transcendental, kind of haunting, you know. I think you’ll like it.” When, still, nothing happened, she continued: “Or Gregorian chants? Kind of feels like you’re in a monastery—not that I know what it’s like to be in a monastery, but you might. I mean, from your time at the university.” She took a deep breath and rolled her eyes. Yeah, that sounded really intelligent, Deanna. Probably a good thing he’s not conscious—idiot.
His Crest Ring, the one on his fourth finger bearing the crest from the house of Jadon on it, caught her eye; and she reached down to touch it. “This is so beautiful. Are there any special markings? Something engraved specifically for a wizard versus a healer or a justice? Do warriors have a particular ornament?” She stood in the silence, listening to the echo of her own words, and forced a smile. “Okay, well then, I guess…Celtic it is.” She opened the Celtic guitar CD, walked across the room, and placed it carefully in the Panasonic CD player—who knew what a receiver like that cost, but she didn’t want to be the one to break it. Snatching a throw-blanket from a pile of linens Kagen had placed on the counter by the sink, she crawled back into the chair beside Nachari’s bed, reached down for the book, and tucked her knees up to her chest, covering the majority of her body with the coverlet.
She turned on the reading lamp beside the bed, opened the first page, and hesitated: The light was shining just so across Nachari’s face, and it made his complexion appear almost luminescent. His skin was absolutely flawless. His features were so refined yet masculine—strong. She bent over and traced the back of her fingers across his cheek and closed her eyes. “Come back to me, Nachari,” she whispered. “For whatever it’s worth, I’m here, and I’m not going to run away.” She chuckled then. “Okay, well, I’m not going to promise that I won’t run at first…or scream…or just generally freak the hell out the moment I see you, but I won’t go far. I’m your destiny, right?” And I’m praying that you’re mine.
She sat back in the chair once more, turned her attention to the book, and opened it to Chapter One: All right then, here goes nothing…
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us…”
thirteen
Kristina Riley-Silivasi sat back in the plush leather seats of her pink Corvette beneath the high shade-bearing branches of a large oak tree outside Napolean’s manse. It was Thursday, around six PM—two days since Ramsey Olaru had come by to visit at the brownstone—and she hoped she might catch a glimpse of him leaving Napolean’s following a routine briefing.
The six-foot-five, heavily muscled warrior had not come by or called since Tuesday, and although it really wasn’t that long of a time to wait, Kristina was getting curious. She’d had a lot of time to think about his words—and his actions—that night on the front porch; and she was more than just a little eager for a replay, especially considering all of the stressful events going on in her life at the time: Nachari’s illness; her choice to stay with Braden at the brownstone; and constantly trying to adapt to her new life…and family.
She sighed, and then she perked up as she heard male voices in the courtyard saying their good-byes. She quickly rolled up her tinted windows, hoping to remain hidden, and watched as Ramsey rounded the corner and headed toward a parked black Escalade.
Shoot. He was going to climb in his SUV and drive away before she had a chance to—
What?
Watch him.
Stalk him?
What did she expect him to do—dance around the yard for her amusement? Stop and say wassup to the squirrels? Kristina frowned. She might as well just get out of the car and confront him—go say hi. After all, he was the one who had initiated their…situation; and he had seemed more than eager the other night: Why would tonight be any different?
She tucked her pink purse beneath the seat, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and stepped out of the car. A cool breeze washed over her as she strolled confidently across the grass toward Ramsey. She had no idea what she was going to say, but she figured she could make it up as they went along. Surely, he would take the lead.
The huge warrior heard the pile of leaves beneath her feet crush, and he spun around with perfect stealth and grace, all alert, ready…and yummy as hell.
Kristina smiled. “Hey!” She was still a short distance away.
He just stood there, staring at her like a bump on a log.
Okay. Let’s try this again.
“Hey, Ramsey: Wait up.” She hurried her steps to his car, and then she hesitated, taken aback by the completely inhospitable look on his face. His gorgeous eyes were narrowed and more than a little cautious; his sculpted biceps were taut, like he was ready to jump at a moment’s notice; and his model-good looks were offset by a subtle but obvious expression that said, Run, little mouse—before I eat you in one bite.
Kristina took a step back. “Ramsey?”
He raised his eyebrows.
She cleared her throat. “Okay…hi…how are you?”
“What are you doing here?” he asked, ignoring all attempts at congeniality. “Are you here to see Napolean? Has something happened?”
Kristina smiled then, figuring of course he would think like a sentinel first. “Oh, yeah…uh, no, I mean—not at all. I’m kind of here to see you.” She turned to point at her car. “Well, not here for that reason exactly, but I was driving by and well, yeah, I saw you and decided to stop.” She paused, trying to force her mouth to close and stay closed—to just shut up. It didn’t work. “So, what’s up?”
He frowned and shook his head like she was a major nuisance or something, a fly or a gnat buzzing around his head. “You tell me,” he said brusquely.
Kristina felt her heart drop into the pit of her stomach. What the hell? So, this was how he was going to play it? Like he didn’t even know her? What was all this keep-your-distance-in-public crap? “You know, that’s really not cool, Ramsey. I mean, I get the whole discretion thing, but you’re being a bit of a…butthead.”
The warrior’s top lip twitched and a barely audible growl emanated from his throat. “What the hell are you talking about?” He looked her up and down derisively. “Kristin, right? Marquis’s convert?”
Kristina’s mouth fell open at the insult: Marquis’s convert? Not Marquis’s ex-destiny? Granted, the whole thing had been a mistake perpetrated by Salvatore Nistor and the Dark Ones—still, it had been very real to her and Marquis at
the time. Ramsey could have at least referred to her as Marquis’s sister or the newest Silivasi; but no, he had called her Marquis’s convert, like she was some cult follower or something. “What’s your problem,” she demanded, her voice betraying her irritation.
He shook his head like it was full of cobwebs. “What do you want, Kristin?”
She was mad enough to spit now. “Kristin? It’s Kristina, and you damn well know it!” She clenched her fists at her sides. “And what do I want?” She shrugged, bristling. “I don’t know—I guess for some stupid reason I thought I wanted you, but I’m quickly changing my mind.”
He was the one who stepped back this time. “Girl, what are you talking about…wanting me?”
Kristina felt hot tears well up in her eyes, and she quickly pushed them back. She would not cry in front of him. She would not give him the satisfaction of humiliating her like this—playing head games with her for sport, just because he could. She sidled up to him, striding more like a prostitute than a female vampire, and licked her lips. “Oh, you know the deal: I’m single; you’re single; there aren’t that many of us in the house of Jadon…maybe we could hook up and kill some time together… That kind of wanting you, asshole.”
Ramsey cocked his head to the side and spat on the ground. When he turned back to look at her, his eyes were a faint shade of red, and there was a subtle almost indiscernible twitch in his lower jaw. He crossed his arms in front of him. “Didn’t your mother ever teach you not to play with fire, little girl?” He flicked his wrist like he was shooing away a bug. “You need to go home.”
That was it.
The straw that broke the camel’s back.
Enraged, Kristina extended her arm to slap his face, throwing everything she had into the lightning-quick strike. In an instant she was standing with her back to him, completely caught off guard.
The sentinel had caught her arm, spun her around, and linked both of her wrists together in a firm hold, all with the palm of one hand. He bent over her and breathed into her ear, a harsh, guttural sound that was more animalistic than human. “I don’t know who you think you are, or what you’re trying to accomplish, but you need to go home…go back to your brothers…and get a grip. I’m not some male you want to toy with, Kristina.” He pressed his hard chest against her back. “Believe me; you don’t want to turn me on—or piss me off. Succeed at either one, and you’re gonna have a whole lot of vampire you can’t handle to deal with, you hear me?” He pushed her away. Actually shoved her—however gently—causing her to stumble.